“Why?”
“I want to scatter ’em about on the table in front of this Nickerson blighter.”
“Is this where he lives?”
We had come to a red-roofed house, set back from the road amidst trees. Ukridge wielded the knocker forcefully.
“Tell Mr. Nickerson,” he said to the maid, “that Mr. Ukridge has called and would like a word.”
About the demeanour of the man who presently entered the room into which we had been shown there was that subtle but well-marked something which stamps your creditor all the world over. Mr. Nickerson was a man of medium height, almost completely surrounded by whiskers, and through the shrubbery he gazed at Ukridge with frozen eyes, shooting out waves of deleterious animal magnetism. You could see at a glance that he was not fond of Ukridge. Take him for all in all, Mr. Nickerson looked like one of the less amiable prophets of the Old Testament about to interview the captive monarch of the Amalekites.
“Well?” he said, and I have never heard the word spoken in a more forbidding manner.
“I’ve come about the rent.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Nickerson, guardedly.
“To pay it,” said Ukridge.